


Valentine's Day 2004 Nuzguling

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi-Age, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2004-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various offerings for the HA On-list challenge by the same name. List members had five days to write stories on one of two prompts:</p><p>(1)  The couple celebrates their first anniversary.<br/>(2) <b>What</b> first attracted one character to the other? When did it<br/>become clear this was the person s/he wanted to marry/court, and<br/>why?</p><p>Individual stories are in the separate chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Precious

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

He crouched in front of me, across the river. His long fingers probe the mud in the river's murky depths, the other hand shielding his eyes from the harsh sun. Sméagol glanced up a moment at the sound of my footsteps, but then he turned his head downward again quickly, away from the burning sun.

Yet not quickly enough. Not before I recognized those soulful blue eyes, eyes that have seen too much.

You do not forget eyes such as those.

It was those eyes that saw what others so often missed. They saw more than mere twigs in the bird's nest he brought me that Yule near twenty years past.

"My Salvia," he said as we walked across the field hand in hand. "Wait here, love, Sméagol has something for you." And he ran ahead, to an old rabbit hole where he often stored his treasures. A few moments later I heard his padding footsteps approaching again. He was almost to me before I saw what he held in his hands.

I held it in my hand, turning it in the moonlight, trying to decipher its worth. 'Twas merely twisted branch and tufts of feather! Yet my love considered it a fitting gift for his Salvia.

"Why?" I asked him, probing his eyes for some hint at the answer to this riddle.

He looked at me, confusion clouding his face. "Because it is like us, my love." He traced a branch as far as he could, poking his long finger through the nest. "Little bits, weak on their own, but tucked and turned into something else. Where does one end and the other begin, Salvia? They are one and the same. And they make a safe home."

And I kissed him, then. Our first kiss. My lips touched his cheek, and he turned in surprise. And he smiled.

His lips were second in my heart only to his eyes, yet least of all for kissing. There was really no need, and so many other uses we could put them to. We would go deep into the forest together, where the moonlight shimmered through the boughs like silver rain, and he would show me the wild flowers growing on the trees. Then he would break off the end and suck the juice out through the tip, and show me how to do the same. And when we had sucked all the flowers dry we would lie against the mossy hills, watch the caterpillars climb up the trees and the squirrels leap from branch to branch.

Yet for all our moonlit walks together, I most missed the sunlit afternoons, lying on the riverbank cooling our feet in the water.

The grass grew thick there, at our special spot, and it always seemed greener than anywhere else. Though I suppose that is probably just the imaginings of a reminiscent heart. Whatever else it was, that bank was ours. It was there that he gave me my wood-pipe, just like his own.

They were two simple pieces of wood, or so you might think. Hardly thicker than a limb on a tree. But I knew better. Sméagol had bought them from the Big Folk -- he had befriended some of them when he was younger -- and there by the river we found another use for my Sméagol's lips: music. His voice was raspy even then, so it was usually I who sang when the mood struck us. Yet he would blow into his pipe, and his nimble fingers would move along its length, and the clear tones would sail to the heavens. I do not think even a dwarf-horn could match his pipe-playing.

_The bird in the meadow and his mate in the tree_  
Filled the air with his joyful tune,  
As the cricket's soft sawing and the buzz of the bee  
Joined their song in the afternoon.  
Birds sing a song, rest join along,  
'Till night brings the birth of the Moon. 

Or so the old song went. He played it on his pipe, and after he taught me how I joined him. At first my squeaks frightened away even the bullfrogs, but as the weeks passed my pipe-playing came to rival the songs of the sparrows. Or so my Sméagol said, at least. I didn't believe him, but it didn't matter.

Those lips proved to be quite talented, indeed. Good for sucking eggs and teaching new songs, playing riddles -- Sméagol knew more riddles than anyone else I had ever known! But still, his eyes were always more dear to me. In them I saw a wonder and a curiosity rare even among hobbits. Such wonder and depth! And maybe I was imagining that, seeing things that weren't there. Love blinds, they say. But somehow I don't think so.

"Mama." A small hand grabbed my finger then, tearing me from my reverie. She is beautiful. I picked her up in my arms then and swung her around, her brown curls bouncing as I jostled her up and down. "Have you had a nice afternoon, Lily?"

She smiled at that, nodding. "I made a hat for Rory," she said, pointing over at her brother walking along the bank further upstream.

I could not help but giggle at that. The sight of twelve-year-old Rory, a ring of daisies adorning his ruddy face and unruly hair, is a sight to behold indeed. And as I smiled at my son, I caught a last look at Sméagol plodding on along the bank into the sunset.

_This might have been yours, my love_ , I thought to myself, wondering if he ever thought the same thing. _This might have been **ours** ... you wanted it once. Do you remember? But they called you murderer. Thief. They threw you out._

I sighed. _But that never bothered me. I would have come with you, if you would have asked_.

"Mama?" Lily asked, laying her hand on my cheek. I turned back to her and blew on her nose, eliciting another giggle.

_Hobbit mothers can be most persuasive_ , I thought, stealing one last glance at Sméagol. _I am sorry._

"Mama, who is that?" Lily asked me again. Her smile was gone now, replaced by a most pensive look. Clever child.

"A friend," I said at last, climbing up the bank away from the river. "He was Mama's precious, and Mama was his. But that was a long time ago."


	2. Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Various offerings for the HA On-list challenge by the same name. List members had five days to write stories on one of two prompts:

The anniversary of the marriage of Arathorn and Gilraen began much like any other for Gilraen. She rose and worked as normal, all the time wondering when she would see her husband. Knowing what the day was, her friends had spent the evening with her, for which Gilraen was grateful. She had almost been able to forget her worry in their company, yet it was now late in the evening, her friends had gone home to their own families and he was still not back.

Gilraen had known that Arathorn would often be away when she married and had accepted it at the time. She also knew he had been a Ranger since before she was born and it was his destiny but she would preferred for him to be with her more often - in the past year she had been alone for more days than she had spent with Arathorn. He told her of the dangers he often faced but that had not helped - now she had something specific to worry about. She did not look forward to the day when she would worry about their sons the same way. At least she would know their daughters would be safe, if they had any.

She could not help but go to the window one more time. There was no-one out there, just as there had been each time she looked. She did not want to think about going to bed alone again. Their house looked bare now that she had tidied all evidence of her friends being there earlier. She had not thought it necessary to keep any candles lit but the one by the chair she had been sitting in to read and the darkness merely accentuated the emptiness. Now the candle had almost burnt out and Gilraen had not managed to read more than a few pages.

Arathorn usually kept to his word when he told her when he expected to be home. He had promised to only be gone a few days this time, yet it had already been more than a week. She gave a small smile as she remembered the words of her friends earlier in the evening: "Perhaps he's just trying to find you the perfect present." A tear slipped from Gilraen's eye, which she wiped away, knowing that when Arathorn did return she would be so grateful he was alive that she would not care what the day was.

Gilraen had turned her back to the door, intending to go to bed so the day would be over with, when she thought she heard it open. She had spent the evening hearing noises outside, thinking - hoping - they would be made by Arathorn, and several times during the day she had thought it was him calling her, when in reality it was another. It was only when she heard her name repeated, coupled with the sound of footsteps behind her she knew she could not be imagining things.

At last turning, with more hope than she had felt all day, she saw the man she had been expecting. She ran into his arms and pressed her face into his shoulder. This time she did cry but they were tears of relief. She wondered briefly if she would ever get used to this and decided that if she had not after one year of marriage she probably never would.

Gilraen pulled back and made to kiss her husband but stopped when she looked at him. Along with the usual dirt on his skin there was also dried blood, but even that could not hide the weariness in his face or the redness of his eyes.

"What's happened?" Gilraen asked, although she feared the answer.

"My father was taken by hill trolls. He is dead."

Gilraen gasped, closing her eyes. She had liked Arador, for he was much like his son and Arathorn's mother had given her much helpful advice. Gilraen could imagine how she would be feeling now, and although she grieved for Arathorn's father, she was glad it had not been her husband.

She opened her eyes once more to look at Arathorn. "How are you?" she asked him.

"I'm unhurt," he said but that was not what she was asking.

"Arathorn," she chastised, softly.

"All the better for seeing you," and with that he kissed her.

Gilraen pulled back reluctantly. She had been desperate to tell Arathorn her news since she found out the previous day but now she was standing in front of him she wondered if now was a good time.

"What is it?" he asked concern on his face.

Now she had to tell him. She knew it would make him happy but how could they celebrate when his father was dead? Gilraen took Arathorn's hand in hers, absently wondering when he had taken them from around her waist. She pressed his hand to her stomach, giving him a warning of what was to come. "I am with child," she said.

Gilraen watched Arathorn's face change in that instant. "A baby," he said, unable to stop smiling. Watching him, Gilraen could not help but do the same.

"Yes," she said. "Perhaps it will be a son, for you to teach and me to worry over."

Arathorn understood what she did not say. "I promised you I would be home for our anniversary and I am."

"You did not have to leave for me."

"Yes, I did." Arathorn's tone had become more serious and he touched her cheek with the hand not holding onto hers. "Everything will be different now."

Gilraen nodded. She knew Arathorn would become Chieftain one day but she had expected it to be far in the future. And when the baby came would Arathorn be home for that event?

"I did not bring you a gift though," he continued.

Gilraen gave a laugh. "You are enough," and when they kissed again the candle went out.

***

paranoidangel

 

A/N: I am using two definitions of year here - one literal, one referring to the changing of numbers in the date

_And it happened that when Arathorn and Gilraen had been married only one year, Arador was taken by hill-trolls in the Coldfells north of Rivendell and was slain; and Arathorn became Chieftain of the Dunedain. The next year Gilraen bore him a son, and he was called Aragorn._

Appendix A, The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen


End file.
